


Feverish

by Tierfal



Category: Death Note
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:10:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Near has a fever, and Matt won't leave him alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feverish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jenwryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/gifts).



> For the superfantabulous Jenwryn, for the prompt "postcard." :)

Near curled smaller, nestling into the sheet, and squeezed his eyes shut.

The door creaked as someone drew it open.

"Near?" Matt's voice prompted.

"I'm sick," Near mumbled. "Leave a message."

The door shut again, but the footsteps had progressed into the room. Near sighed.

Matt knelt next to his bed, jeans scuffing on the hardwood, and cracking an eye open confirmed that the gangly redhead was peering into his face.

"Are you okay?" Matt asked. "Do you want me to get Roger?"

"It's fine," Near muttered back. "He was here…"

Matt noticed the tray of untouched breakfast on the nightstand. "Oh. Well… what've you got?"

"It's a fever," Near reported. He eyed Matt suspiciously. "Possibility of contagion."

Matt stood, and Near thought he'd won—but then his visitor laid a cool palm on Near's forehead, only to withdraw it almost as soon as he'd set it down.

"You're frying!" was the verdict. "You're going to _die_!"

"It's at an even forty degrees," Near explained to the pillow. "As long as it doesn't get higher, there's no reason to be concerned."

"Of course I'm concerned!" Matt protested. "You haven't eaten anything, and you're burning up from the inside, and—"

"What'd we learn about fevers in Biology, Matt?" Near managed.

Matt thought it over. "That… they're just a symptom, really, of the body heating itself up to fight off invaders, which can't take the temperature."

Near blinked at him meaningfully, and Matt frowned.

"All right," he conceded. "Let me at least take this—" He picked up the tray. "—back to the kitchen so it doesn't get all gross."

Near had no objections, as he wasn't hungry anyway, and Matt departed, casting worried glances over one stripe-clad shoulder as he went.

Closing his eyes again, Near tucked both knees in against his chest and tried to quell the shivers that snaked up his backbone and rocked his core. He wanted all of his blankets and his warm down comforter, but he could have sworn he'd read somewhere that you shouldn't let someone with a fever risk overheating, and much as he'd reassured Matt, he didn't want to take his chances. Hospitals were the most unnerving places in the wide world, and he'd spent enough of his childhood in and out of them to be willing to go to great lengths to avoid another stay.

He was just sinking into a fitful doze when the door opened again, whisking over the carpet and creaking at the hinge, jolting him properly awake.

It wasn't _fair_. He felt terrible, and all he wanted was to _sleep_. Was that really so much to ask?

Gingerly Matt sat down on the edge of his bed, prodding uncertainly at his shoulder. Near raised his eyelids only a fraction, hoping that the narrowed slits of his eyes would convey his message without a word.

Matt smiled sheepishly and apologetically, which Near supposed counted for something.

"Roger said I should make sure you drink enough," the redhead announced, "'cause he said the biggest danger is getting dehydrated. And—L sent you a postcard!"

That, at least, was of some interest. Near mustered the energy to raise an arm, and Matt handed it over. There was a picture of the Hagia Sophia on one side, and on the other… nonsense.

Near scowled, pulling the card closer and forcing his eyes to focus.

No, not nonsense, and not quite gibberish—it was…

A cipher—not quite simple, but fairly straightforward, and easily parsed.

_Very good, Near._

Hardly; it had taken him twice as long as it should have.

He looked to the next paragraph, already shifting it according to the encryption, and… stopped.

This one was a _different_ cipher, utterly unconnected to the first.

Near's head ached, and his mouth was dry, and he was still freezing cold, and he was _tired_, and he just wanted all of it to _go away_—

"Everything's a _test_," he muttered, sounding reedy and petulant to his own ears. "Everybody _wants_ something."

He gathered his strength and pitched the postcard towards the closet.

Naturally, it turned a spiteful, artful half-twirl and barely made it off the bed.

He was just so _weak_, so small, useless, fragile; and the world took _joy_ in crushing him beneath its heel; and he _hated_ it. It wasn't _fair_—that there should be things beyond his power, outside his capabilities, things he couldn't fix or heal with willpower and brilliance. It wasn't _right_.

He flinched as Matt reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm not," Matt said, "and I don't."

Near drew himself in smaller still, trying to escape the weight.

"I'm cold," he said.

He didn't have to look to see Matt smiling, and then the mattress creaked softly as an incredibly uncoordinated body slotted itself between the sheets beside him. A pair of arms snaked gently around him and pulled him against a figure even more angular than it looked from the outside, draped in striped clothes, crowned by the unrepentant oddity of the orange goggles.

Near squirmed, rolled over, and buried his face in Matt's chest, minefield of mountainous ribs and collarbones that it was.

It was only minutes before the shivers stopped, and then Matt stroked his hair until at last he fell asleep.


End file.
